It was Saturday evening and the boys had gathered around the campfire on the lakeshore—for the breeze was rather chilly as it often was even in those summer months. Most of them had been working all day and were now content enough to lie idly by the fire listening lazily to the three-days-old baseball news or throwing gibes at Higby and Porter who were preparing for their nightly canoe trip to the Lodge.

“Gee,” Greenleaf said, “I wish something exciting would turn up.”

“Caught any more sick bear?” Steve asked sarcastically.

“That bear was the liveliest corpse you ever saw,” Greenleaf retorted. “The bears have not bothered any more lately, but I found a peach of a partridge nest this afternoon. Eleven eggs in it. And on the way home I found a mallard duck’s nest away up on the hill back of the dining hall. There were eleven eggs in that, too. You better get some pictures of them in the morning, Morris.”

“How will those ducks ever get down to the lake?” Morris asked.

“March down,” Greenleaf answered. “The day after they hatch every one of them will be in the lake. You ought to have seen that old partridge when I found the nest. She fluttered right across my feet twice, playing at a broken wing, and when I went away she ran after me hissing and whining like a pup. I reckon she thought she scared me out.”

“Probably did,” Bill Price insinuated.

Before Greenleaf could retort Sturgis came around the corner of the library and called him.

“I wonder if he is going to spoil my evening?” Greenleaf growled, but he jumped up cheerfully enough. He was doing some extra work clerking for Sturgis.

The two disappeared around the library, and the desultory discussion around the fire continued. In a few minutes Greenleaf walked back to the fire alone. He stood there talking casually until he had caught Scott’s eye, when with an almost imperceptible raising of the eyebrows he beckoned him away. He walked off whistling toward the bunkhouse and Scott soon followed him.

“What is it?” Scott asked eagerly, when he had overtaken the loitering figure, for he had caught something in Greenleaf’s eye which showed excitement.

“What is it?” Greenleaf repeated excitedly. “It’s something that will make capturing that bear look pretty tame.”

“What?”

“Catching a man,” Greenleaf said mysteriously.

Scott was burning up with curiosity. “Well, why don’t you tell a fellow what it is instead of mooning around like a hero in a dime novel? Who is the man? Where is he? What has he done?”

“We don’t know who he is,” Greenleaf answered, with exasperating deliberation, “and you mustn’t talk so loud about it. There is no telling who may be in with them. It would not do to have them warned now.”

Scott gritted his teeth. “If you don’t want your neck broken you’d better explain this thing. What’s it all about, anyway?”

Greenleaf looked around suspiciously and drew Scott out into the open tennis court. “Sturgis has a hunch,” he whispered, “that those men who are working on the north road are trying to snare deer in the park. He wants us to help him catch them. It’s against the law, you know, and he’s a game warden.”

“Whereabouts are they?” Scott asked eagerly.

“He thinks the snares are over in Hubbard ravine. We’ll go over there tonight and try to catch them in the early morning when they come to look at the snares.”

“Gee,” Scott chuckled, “that will be something worth while. Are we going to start now?”

“Sturgis said he would wait for us at the corner of the pasture. We’d better take our coats with us; it’ll be cold waiting.”

A few minutes later the three had met and were hurrying out the old road toward the ravine. The boys were eager with suppressed excitement. They felt the primitive thrill of the manhunter.

“How did you hear about it?” Scott asked.

“One of the men heard them talking,” Sturgis said, “and saw them hanging around the ravine one evening when he was going home.”

“How many are there?” Greenleaf asked.

“Two men and a boy up there, but probably we cannot get more than one of them. They will not all come to see the traps.”

“Do you think they’ll fight?” Scott asked eagerly.

“No,” Sturgis said, “I doubt if they will fight much, but they’ll probably put up an awful run for it. There’s a hundred dollars’ fine.”

They walked on for a while in silence, each one figuring out his tactics for the coming battle. It was a very dark night. Only the blacker outline of the trees against the dark sky indicated the opening of the road ahead of them. Now and then they heard some night prowler rustling through the brush, or the swift short rush of a frightened rabbit. Once they came dangerously near stumbling over an indifferent porcupine who refused to give them the road. It made them a little more careful how they picked their steps.

“We’ll have to leave the road here,” Sturgis said, stopping at a trail which would have been entirely invisible to anyone not thoroughly familiar with the woods at night. “They may be looking for tracks in the road in the morning and we don’t want to scare them off.”

It was slow work picking their way along that crooked trail. It wound through a dense stand of young jack pine, and the darkness was absolute. Again and again Sturgis had to wait for them, for it was necessary that they be in touch with each other if they were to stay together. It seemed to Scott as though they must have gone miles and miles, but he knew that it could not be far. The steep side slope on which they were traveling told him that they were on the edge of the ravine. The whir of frogs in the hollow told of a shallow lake. They left the side hill trail to avoid the gullies and then wound here and there to keep out of the denser brush. Scott no longer had the slightest idea where he was or which way he was going, but Sturgis evidently had his bearings, for he turned abruptly down the hill across a narrow neck between two swamps. On the opposite edge he stopped to listen.

“Those fellows are camped right up there a quarter of a mile,” he said. “Don’t make any noise, because they may have a dog in camp.”

Scott was astonished to find that they were on a road, but it was grass-grown and would tell no tales. Once more they turned from the road, this time into an open stand of Norway pine free from undergrowth. They had gone just far enough to be out of the way of any stragglers from the road when Sturgis stopped. “We’ll wait here,” he said. “It’s a pity we cannot light a fire, for it will be cold.”

“Why did we start so early?” Greenleaf asked. “They are not likely to come before morning.”

“No,” Sturgis said, “they won’t come before morning but I don’t know just where that runway is. The moon will be up after a while, so that we can find it and pick out a good place to hide.”

“What sort of a trap do they use?” Scott asked.

“They don’t use a trap,” Sturgis said, “they use a snare. Bend down a sapling, attach a wire loop to it, and fasten it down with a trip. You don’t want to get into it for it may be a good-sized tree and it would jar you some.”

They waited in silence for two hours. It was too cold to sleep. Scott tried it once, but he soon woke up shivering. After that he tried to keep warm by deep breathing and straining one muscle against another. The darkness was beginning to seem interminable when the moon, coming slowly above the horizon, cast a faint shimmer of light through the clouds. As the light grew stronger Scott distinguished the steep declivity close in front of them leading down to the swamp and recognized the trout stream which the bear had kept him from fishing. The tangled swamp looked in that half light like a pretty poor place in which to catch a man, but he tightened his shoe lacings at the mere thought of the race and the blood tingling through his veins soon warmed him.

“Now let’s see if we can find that runway,” Sturgis said, rising stiffly. “Look out for that snare.”

They crawled slowly along the edge of the hill, searching for the deer-trail and taking great care not to leave a trail themselves—for as Sturgis had said, men who were running the risk of a hundred-dollar fine would be mighty suspicious of the least sign of an intruder. They had not gone over forty rods when they came to a very plain trail leading down into the swamp. “This must be the trail,” Sturgis said, “and this little clump of young popple is a good place to hide. They ought to come from this side.”

Once more they took up the silent, weary watch. It seemed to Scott as if he must get crosseyed looking down that narrow trail. Occasionally his eyes would become so blurred that he had to take a general survey of the surrounding country to relieve his strained muscles. There was not a sound in the woods. It was that period which is a sort of “no man’s land” in the daily program, the time when life seems at its lowest ebb, when the sinister noises of the night have ceased and the songs of the morning have not yet begun.

Slowly the sky began to pale and the birds began to move restlessly in the trees. Almost before they could fully realize it the world was wide awake. The light grew stronger and stronger till the real sunlight was visible spreading fanlike up from the eastern horizon.

“Well,” Sturgis said nervously, stretching himself, “if they are coming it is pretty near time for them to be here.” He peered out through the bushes toward the camp and immediately jerked his head back violently. “By George, there comes Newman, now,” he exclaimed excitedly. “Don’t make a sound, whatever happens.”

From their hiding place in the bushes they could see a man making his way rapidly up the hill. He was coming almost directly towards them. It seemed as though he must feel those burning eyes, for on the brow of the hill he stopped and looked suspiciously around him. His eyes traveled searchingly over the ground.

Suddenly there was a crash in the swamp below, followed instantly by a cry like the bleat of a frightened sheep. It so startled the tense nerves in the bushes that they surely would have been betrayed had it not affected the newcomer so much more. At that sound he threw caution to the winds and bounded down the hill, crashing through the brush like a moose.

“What was that noise?” Scott whispered.

“A deer in the snare,” Sturgis said. “Come on. Don’t make any noise unless he runs, and then after him.”

They crept stealthily down the hillside, keeping under cover as much as possible but relying mostly on the deer’s occupying the poacher’s attention. They did not have far to go, for the snare was not over a hundred yards from their hiding place. Before they had covered half the distance they could catch glimpses of Newman through the brush vainly struggling with the deer. The noose had caught it around the body just in front of the hind legs and suspended it clear of the ground. It was thrashing the air violently with its front feet and blatting in the frenzy of despair. Newman tried at first to cut its throat, but found it impossible to get past those murderous feet. He was just turning to cut a club when he saw his pursuers not over thirty yards away.

The boys in their tennis shoes had easily distanced Sturgis. When they saw that their approach was discovered they bounded ahead with an exultant shout. Each picked his own way through the swamp, and neither thought of anything save the flying figure ahead of him. They were both good runners but fear lent wings to the feet of the fugitive and he knew the swamp better than they. They fell through holes in the sphagnum and went sprawling. Had Newman stuck to the swamp he might have out-distanced them, but at the north boundary he took to the firebreak and started eastward over the ridge. The boys came out on the solid ground fifty yards behind him.

“Now we’ve got him.” Scott hissed between his teeth, and he shot away over the hard ground at a terrific pace. Greenleaf’s breath was coming in gasps, but Scott’s endurance was standing him in good stead. They closed on the poacher at every jump and were already within twenty yards of him when a frightened glance over his shoulder told him that he had no chance in the open road. He turned suddenly into the dense brush and dodged like a jack rabbit. Greenleaf caught his toe on a fallen log and went crashing out of the race.

Finding only one man behind him and that man almost within striking distance Newman turned at bay. But he was so exhausted that he could hardly stand. He waved his knife threateningly, and tried to warn Scott off, but his hot breath choked him.

“Better give it up, old man,” Scott said, eying him coolly. “You’re all in.”

The man swayed unsteadily, and gasped what was meant to be a threat.

“Come,” Scott commanded, taking a step forward, “drop that knife and be sensible.” He snatched up a stick and advanced resolutely. The man still waved the knife sullenly. With one quick blow of the stick Scott sent the knife flying and almost at the same instant felled the man with a left to the jaw. Greenleaf came up panting, and the man showed no further signs of fight. Scott secured the knife as a trophy of the chase.

“Now get up and come along sensibly,” Scott commanded.

Neither Greenleaf nor the poacher had sufficient breath left to talk and they made their way out to the road in silence. It was not till then that either of them noticed that Sturgis was not with them or even in sight on the road.

“We certainly could not have lost him,” Scott exclaimed.

“Maybe he twisted a leg in that swamp,” Greenleaf suggested. “I came near it several times.”

As they hurried along they were surprised to find how far they had come. They had covered a good half-mile after they left the swamp.

“No wonder I was so pesky winded,” Greenleaf said, as they made their way slowly along the hillside. “That’s the farthest I have run since the bear chased me in Montana. Here’s that deer trail. We can cross the swamp now.”

The swamp was very narrow and before they had gone four rods Newman stopped with a gasp. The boys followed his frightened stare and horror almost paralyzed them for an instant. Then they burst into roars of laughter in which Newman joined maliciously. There, only a short distance ahead of them, was Sturgis, suspended by one foot from a deer snare so that only his head and shoulders rested comfortably in the soft moss. They were afraid at first that he was badly hurt, but the sheepish look of humiliation was too much for their gravity. Ten feet beyond, the deer was still struggling on another wire.

“Are you—” Scott began, but burst into another uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Are you hurt, Sturgis?” he managed to get out between the explosions.

“Nothing but my feelings,” Sturgis answered dryly. “Bend that sapling down a minute. There. I see now why you set two of these things, Newman,” he added as he waved his leg cautiously around to see if it would work.

“Why didn’t you yell?” Greenleaf asked.

“Well, at first I was too astonished to yell and then I was afraid that if I did you would stop and let Newman get away. I wanted you pretty badly anyway, Newman, and I wouldn’t have had you get away after this for twice the fine.”

Even the mention of the fine could not suppress the grin on Newman’s face. When they had sufficiently recovered they turned their attention to the deer. It was no easy task to get him down. He was somewhat tired by the long struggle but still promised an awful punishment to anyone who might try to touch him.

Newman had become resigned to his fate and was beginning to enjoy the situation. “I put him up there,” he chuckled, “now let’s see you get him down.” He sat down on a log to see the fun.

Greenleaf came to the rescue as usual, “I’ll climb the tree and cut off the top. Then we can handle him.”

Cutting off the top was a simple proposition but the “handling” was more complicated. For a moment it looked as though there were at least twenty deer. The air seemed to be full of them and it was not safe to go near. Greenleaf could not even get down out of the tree. But such violent antics could not last long in the dense brush. In a very few minutes the deer was completely tangled up in the wire and lay panting in a clump of alders unable to get up. Cautiously Sturgis sneaked up from behind and unfastened the wire loop. Scott, venturing a little too close had his trousers slit from the knee to the ankle with one vicious blow of that delicate front foot.

For an instant—and only an instant—the deer did not realize that it was free. Then with one bound it landed squarely on all four feet, cleared the clump of alders as lightly as a puff of smoke, and bounced away up the ridge the white tail waving defiance.

The progress home was slow—for Sturgis’ leg was rather badly wrenched—but they managed to get there just as the boys were coming down from breakfast and their advent into camp was, if possible, more triumphant than when they had captured the bear.